No Way To Kill A Lady

by Nancy Martin

  “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t very easy,” Sutherland agreed.

  On the marble floor tile lay an Oriental rug swirling with subtle ocean colors—unique and probably custom-woven. I guessed the rug alone was worth more than most luxury cars.

  Through a darkened doorway, I could see the lacquered dining table and chairs. “This looks like the boat of a Saudi prince.”

  Indulging himself, Sutherland said, “Check this out, Scheherazade.”

  He used a handheld remote control to dim the lights, lower the window shades and cue up music from hidden speakers.

  “Electronics,” I said, shaking my head with amusement. “That’s a man’s fantasy, I’m afraid. All you need is a Bond girl to make the picture complete.”

  He thumbed the remote again, and an enormous television rose from inside a cabinet. A football game blazed onto the screen.

  “You just spoiled the mood, Sutherland.”

  “Give me a break,” he begged, unapologetically insincere. “I’ve been out of the States for years. I need my football fix.”

  “Just turn down the sound, will you?” I plugged my ears. The crowd noise was loud enough to make me believe I was standing in the middle of the stadium alongside the players.

  “Oh, have it your way.” He turned off the television and tossed the remote aside. “You act like a woman who knows what a man enjoys, though. Does your current flame watch football?”

  I thought of Michael and his various sports obsessions—all of which only reminded me that his family ran a vast illegal betting operation. But I said, “He’s more than a current flame, you know. We’re in a committed relationship.”

  “A committed relationship,” Sutherland repeated, amused. “Why do I think you’re not telling the whole truth?”

  “I am, though. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Cousin. If you brought me here to talk romance, it’s time to change the subject. We have much more serious matters to discuss.”

  Sutherland smiled. “How about that drink first?”

  “Ice water?”

  “I can do better than that,” he said playfully. “Let me show you the wine collection.”

  I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “No, just water, please. I hurt my lip earlier.”

  His brow clouded. “I’m sorry to hear that. An accident?”

  “I hope so,” I said more lightly than I felt.

  “That sounds mysterious. What’s up?” He went behind a bar that looked as if it had been cut from a block of jade. He prepared a glass of ice water.

  “It was something I said. I mentioned Aunt Madeleine’s name, and suddenly a lady clobbered me.” I described what had happened at the club.

  “She hit you! Good God, who was it?”

  “A friend of my parents.”

  “Why would she slap you?”

  “Clearly she had some kind of beef with Madeleine.”

  Sutherland handed me a cut-crystal glass. “Madeleine’s been gone a long while. Time to forgive and forget.”

  I accepted the drink. I wanted to talk about how long she’d been gone, but I asked, “Did you see today’s newspapers?”

  He pulled a face. “Yes. What a pack of lies.”

  “So you don’t believe the story?”

  “That Madeleine was some sort of Mayflower Madam? Of course not.”

  I sipped the water gingerly. The cold felt good on the sore spot in my mouth.

  Sutherland continued. “Not that she was a prude, of course. Both she and my father had affairs. None of that tiresome American bourgeois morality for either of them. They met someone interesting and—off to bed! In Madeleine’s case, to read poetry, I’m sure.” He winked. “Maybe that’s what your slapper was annoyed about. Maybe her husband slept with Madeleine? I remember her getting on a private jet with a randy billionaire from Texas. They flew to Norway for dinner. Who knew there was a decent restaurant in Norway?”

  “Sutherland,” I said.

  He continued to blather.

  I sat on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other, but the longer I sat there with his nonsense sailing over my head, the more my mouth hurt and the more I couldn’t control the angry sensation that had started boiling in my chest. I felt offended on Madeleine’s behalf. I was sick of my cousin’s sneaky ways. I was tired of being a good girl. I wished I’d accepted Michael’s offer to bring along one of his goons to beat Sutherland senseless. Sometimes it must feel good, I thought, to shove somebody’s face in a puddle—especially somebody who’d done you wrong or hidden the truth or otherwise committed a self-serving act at the expense of others. My head hurt.

  I set my glass down and got up from the sofa. Sutherland stopped babbling. The next thing I knew, I was plucking the electronic remote from the table and heading for the door. On my way, I grabbed the Motherwell painting off the wall.

  Sutherland yelped.

  With the painting under my arm, I stalked out onto the deck of the yacht. I threw the remote overboard.

  Sutherland skidded to a stop at the railing just as the remote control hit the cold water with a splash. “Nora! What’s gotten into you? Wait—no!”

  “Stand back,” I snapped. “Or the painting goes, too.”

  “Have you gone crazy?”

  “Just what the hell have you been up to, Sutherland?”

  “Up to?”

  I dangled the painting over the water.

  “No! Please! It’s worth millions!”

  “So start talking. Today you told me Madeleine has been dead in an elevator for twenty years. But a week ago, you sent her obituary to the newspapers.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  I let the painting slip just an inch. He screamed and clapped both hands over his mouth.

  “Do I have your attention now, Cuz? I work for a newspaper. It took me one phone call to figure out it was you who told the newspapers Madeleine was dead in Indonesia. You made that up! In five minutes, my teenage nephew could have found a way to send an obituary without your name right on it, but you bungled it, you—you master criminal!”

  Sutherland dithered, his eyes as wide as saucers.

  “Why on earth did you send an obituary before you knew she was dead?” I demanded. “Because you must have already known she’d been in that elevator for years! So talk! Before I lose my grip on your expensive artwork.”

  “All right, all right! But, please—the Motherwell!”

  I kept the painting right where it was—hanging over the water and twisting in the wind.

  “Okay, okay, I knew Madeleine died a long time ago. I went to Quintain—to see the place. I was really very fond of it— No!” When I leaned over the railing, he stopped embellishing his story and went on hastily, “After Madeleine announced she was going to Indonesia, I went to the damn house to see if I could—if there was anything of value she might have left behind that might—well, that I could take. She’d never have noticed if a few of her silly baubles went missing, would she? And I was broke. So I went to the house. But I—well, the electricity was off, so I turned it on, and then the elevator opened, and there she was—dead as a doornail. Let me tell you, it was a horror. It took me years to recover from the sight of her—”

  “So you stole her things. You stole everything out of the house instead of calling the police?”

  “No, of course I didn’t steal everything,” Sutherland said. “I took one or two little items, but— Oh! Nora, please! That painting isn’t mine. If something happens to the damn thing—”

  “Keep talking! You stole her belongings? Without telling anyone she had died? And then?”

  “And then nothing. Do you think I’d willingly go back to that house, knowing she was rotting there?”

  A powerful wave of regret—or was it nausea?—swept up from inside me, but I fought it down. “Was it you who pretended she was still alive? You sent the postcards?”

  “Me? No, I don’t know anything about that.”

  I had already thought ahea
d to Pippi. If Pee Wee was telling the truth—that she had disappeared about the same time Madeleine planned to leave the country for Indonesia—perhaps she had been the one sending postcards, pretending Madeleine was alive and well. Which meant Pippi knew Madeleine was dead. Had she killed her? And stolen the treasures of Quintain to finance a new life for herself far away?

  “I should phone the police right now,” I said to Sutherland. “I don’t know why I haven’t done that already. I’m giving you a chance to come clean this minute, Sutherland, and then we’ll discuss what you can be prosecuted for. How did Madeleine die?”

  “I presume it happened just the way you saw for yourself. The electricity must have gone off, and she was trapped. Look, she was beyond help. Why shouldn’t I have helped myself just a little?”

  “You’re appalling,” I said. “She died of thirst and starvation, alone, trapped in an elevator. And all you thought of was yourself.” I threw the painting at him.

  He caught it, bobbled it, then hugged the frame against himself as if it were a kitten he’d saved from drowning.

  I had more questions, of course. But I was so angry with Sutherland just then that all the possibilities were jumbled up in my head. And what had Michael said? That eventually the rough interrogation tactics stopped working? It was time to let Sutherland stew. I asked, “When you told the police it was Madeleine in the elevator, what did Foley have to say?”

  Sutherland hugged the painting, silent.

  “You didn’t tell Deputy Foley,” I guessed. “You knew it was Madeleine, but you didn’t mention it?”

  “I didn’t say anything. Not then. Not with all the lawyers gathered around.”

  “What do the lawyers have to do with anything? They’ve been deceived, too, if they were led to believe Madeleine had moved to Indonesia.”

  “I’m not worried about all the lawyers,” he said. “Just Groatley.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ve been a fool, Nora. I know that now. But I—I caught Groatley. After Libby found the body in the elevator, before the police came and—well, everybody wandered around the mansion for a while. Groatley was in Madeleine’s little study. I caught him rummaging in her desk. Clearly, he was searching for something. Something important. He was sweating and breathing heavily—he acted like a guilty man. He turned three shades of red when I came in the door. He pushed past me to get out, blustering something about client privilege.”

  “Did he have anything in his hands?”

  “No, nothing. I suppose he could have tucked something small into one of his pockets, but my impression was that he didn’t find what he was looking for.”

  “Well, he was Madeleine’s lawyer,” I said. “Unlike you, maybe he really did have her best interests at heart.”

  “Or maybe he was covering up something.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  Sutherland flushed. “I caught him ransacking her desk. He’s up to something.”

  “What do you think he’s doing?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I’m calling the police,” I said, turning away from him. “Let them sort everything out.”

  “Wait, Nora. Please. Another day or two won’t hurt the police investigation—not if the crime happened two decades ago. You and I should think things through.”

  I didn’t know what to think. Except I could hear Aunt Madeleine’s voice in my head. She had said, “You’re the one I can trust, aren’t you?”

  Glaring at my cousin, I could understand why she didn’t trust him, why she had cut her own stepson out of her will. Even now, Sutherland was working an angle. I had spent enough time in Michael’s company to spot the signs. Sutherland didn’t have a plan yet, but he was working on something profitable.

  But I’d lost my stomach for torturing the truth out of him. I felt sick—sick of myself as much as anything else.

  I checked my watch. “We’re definitely going to talk more about this, Sutherland, but not now. I’m going to be late.”

  He tried to look disappointed. “Why don’t you stop by again later? We can talk a little longer. And,” he said in a different tone, “we can explore the rest of the boat.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “I’m not going to be your accomplice. I want you to come to Blackbird Farm tomorrow. By then I’ll be able to think straight. Come for lunch. We’ll figure out what happens next.”

  “Sounds good.” Sutherland smiled. “I can meet your committed relationship.”

  I smiled, too. I figured Sutherland was still lying to me. But tomorrow I just might turn Michael and his thugs loose on him and watch the fun.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I wanted to rush home and spill the new developments in the Madeleine story to Michael. He would have a theory about her death. Not to mention insight into the ruse somebody had perpetrated to keep us convinced that Madeleine was living in Indonesia.

  But I had another event to attend. In better weather, I’d have walked the distance to the convention center. I could have phoned Reed to pick me up, but I knew he’d gone to visit his mother in Philadelphia and it would take him the better part of half an hour to reach me. So Sutherland called me a cab.

  He actually tried to kiss me good-bye, but I dodged him.

  I was a few minutes late arriving at the convention center, where many players from the Flyers hockey team were making good use of their night off the ice by helping a local charity to kick off a big holiday toy drive.

  On my way inside, I was air-kissed by several women I knew. I was also bussed hard on the cheek by three men I did not know in the slightest, and one inebriated man who mistook me for someone else and kissed me full on the mouth. In fact, if I hadn’t ducked in time, I was pretty sure I would have gotten some tongue. I grabbed a glass of wine to wash off the taste of him.

  Fortunately, the photographer from the Intelligencer was already on the job, snapping photos of the hockey players as they posed with some local cherubs.

  “Hey, Nora,” Lee Song said, barely looking away from his camera’s lens. “Still working the rubber chicken circuit, I see. How’ve you been?”

  “Eating a lot of chicken, Lee. You?”

  “Busy. The paper laid off all the photographers except me and Josie. So we’re doubling our hours to get everything covered. I’ll be lucky to see my kids at all between now and Christmas.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, well, the extra dough’ll help pay for their presents. You want me to shoot some pictures of the hockey wives? They’re all babes. A nice change from your usual old broads in pearl necklaces.”

  I liked Lee, but I decided not to beat around the bush. “Was it you who took pictures of Quintain? And me at my house? From a helicopter?”

  Lee stopped shooting and had the grace to look embarrassed. “If it’s any consolation, I got airsick. I snapped a few of the castle. And, yeah, I plead guilty to photographing you with your boyfriend. I tried to hide your face. I hope you noticed that.”

  “Thanks for small favors.”

  “Sorry, Nora. I do what I’m told. That’s why I still have a job.”

  “I get it. Do a good job for me tonight, and all is forgiven. I need some great shots for the Web site.”

  “Thanks, Nora. And really—I’m sorry.”

  He got busy snapping photos of the players’ wives, most of whom looked adorably young and normal compared to the wives of pro football players and basketball superstars, who paid big bucks for hair extensions, lip-plumping and breast augmentation. The hockey wives, though, were athletic, Canadian girls-next-door—some of whom spoke only French and giggled a lot.

  I chatted up one, Chanterelle, who told me she was expecting twins in the spring. She patted her tummy, encased in a big knitted angora sweater. “So we want to give a good Christmas to less-fortunate children now, see?”

  “Yes, I see.” I jotted down her quote, expecting to lead my story with it.

  I strolled a
round, making conversation with a few people I knew and accepting a spicy canapé from the circulating waiters. With a glass of club soda in my hand, I looked like any other guest at the party, but I kept my ears open for good quotes to use in my column.

  Several more people kissed me exuberant hellos. I was starting to think I’d wandered into a kissing frenzy.

  The charity in charge of the event had arranged for a silent auction of sports memorabilia, so many ticket holders were cruising the display tables and putting in bids on items signed by local sports heroes, past and present. In the crowd, I bumped into an elderly retired baseball player and his Cuban American wife whom I knew from American Heart Association events—their favorite cause. They were very sweet people, and we chatted for the better part of fifteen minutes. No kissing.

  While talking to them, though, I suddenly spotted Simon Groatley across the room. He was glad-handing some other men, and they all guffawed together as one of the young hockey wives walked past.

  Groatley looked over the head of the man in front of him and met my gaze across the room. He winked.

  The retired baseball player noticed and reacted with surprise. “Do you know Simon Groatley, Nora?”

  “Only very slightly,” I said. “Family business.”

  “Hmph. I hope you keep your distance. Nice girl like you shouldn’t have to put up with a man like that.”

  I smiled. “Are you protecting my honor?”

  He frowned. “If I thought it was in danger, I’d go knock his teeth down his throat right this minute. Has that man been hassling you?”

  “No,” I said with perfect honesty. “But he gave my sister Emma a hard time.”

  The baseball player’s wife laughed. “I imagine Emma took care of him double quick.”

  Her husband did not see anything humorous. “Seriously,” he growled. “The way he brags about women, it’s indecent. And he spends money faster than a river. The man’s no good, I can tell.”

  “Josh,” his wife reprimanded. “Hush.”

  “No need to hush if it’s true,” he said. “You stay away from him, you hear, Nora?”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  The sight of Groatley suddenly sickened me. Whatever he’d been doing in Madeleine’s study hadn’t been in her best interests. But I wasn’t ready to confront him. Not yet. And tonight I sure didn’t want any social kisses from him or any of his cronies.